Quietly waiting for Sam and Charlie to wake up, Dean decided to make himself useful by researching into the spirir they were hunting down. He couldn't concentrate on any of the work he was trying to get done because he kept glancing over at his brother and Charlie in the other bed. He knew it was just because of their accomodations, but a art of him thought it was due to some underlying feelings. He kept going over some random scenarios involving Sam and Charlie. He kept imagining old hunts where the two would go and research while Dean would talk to people. The thing was, he kept thinking that while he left the two alone, they would be off boning each other.
Dean blinked out of his trance when Charlie began to stir. She sat up and stretched and yawned. Dean couldn't help but stare at her curvy form. She glanced his way and nodded at his presence. He couldn't believe how someone whom he had deeply hurt could acknowledge his presence and still show some manners. He could not believe he was such a dick.
Moments later Sam woke up. Once both he and Charlie were done getting ready. The trio left for breakfast down at the diner to discuss the case. They had sat at a booth near the door with, of course, Dean alone on his side of the table. Sam was rambling on about the case with Charlie giving her input. It turned out that they had to go talk to the police because some of the records were too recent to be public, and they also had to go investigate an old cabin on the outskirts of town where all the victims had been found dead from mysterious heart failure. Not really feeling comfortable with the other two, Dean opted for scoping out the cabin before nightfall. He reasoned that three federal agents were unnecessary and might draw unwanted attention.
After another 15 minutes of awkwardness, Dean had driven Charlie and Sam back to the motel to let them change. His implied offer to drive them to the station was subtly declined.
It tooke him about half an hour to reach the cabin, but he made it. It looked like a molded, dilapitated, large-scale version of a child's Lincoln Log cabin. The front porch looked as if it would fall apart if he even attempted to cross it to the threshhold. He circled the house looking for a sturdier entrance path and came up short. The back porch was completely collapsed. He decided to risk a sprained ankle and brave the rickety porch. To his amazement it held. He opened the incredibly screeching front door and was greeted by a dusty, cobwebbed, musky living room. He pulled out his flashlight and began a sweep of the room for anything of use. With no luck, he moved to the adjoining room: the kitchen- and he came up with the sam results as the front room. He continued with the two bedrooms and found only more dust and dirt.
He moved back to the hallway and was searching the walls for anything. If he wasn't paying any attention he would not have noticed the hidden door. He pushed the door and it opened down to a dark, desolate basement. Not willing to admit fear, Dean began to descend the steps looked just as skeptical as the front porch. He did a quick overview before continuing into the cellar. It looked like an old work space. He noticed a makeshift tool bench along the far wall. He approached the table while taking in the rest of the room. It appeared to be an old workspace. He felt an odd chill as he took in the tools layed out: a hammer, screwdrivers, C-clamps, monkey wrenches, saws, pliers. He knew these were common tools, but they were in a hidden, underground room.
He was about to search the drawers, but he felt that someone was right behind him. He turned around carefully when a pair of ice cold hand gripped the sides of his head, and he was forced to stare into a pair of cold, soulless, bloodshot eyes.
